Defiant Captive

by Christina Skye

  "In my considered experience," the physician began, "and I have had a wide acquaintance with lung contagions —"

  Alexandra, who had silently seated herself at the rear of the room, interrupted this oration. "Does his temperature continue to climb, doctor?"

  Sudbury sputtered and looked about in surprise. "As is to be expected in cases of this sort, yes." His expression showed he was put off to be discussing a case with a mere female. With a slight bow, he dismissed her and made to turn back to Hawkesworth.

  But Alexandra persisted. "When exactly did the fever commence?"

  "Two days ago." This time the doctor was more abrupt. "Have you some interest in this case?"

  Alexandra ignored his question. "When was he last bled?"

  "Your Grace, I really must protest this interference by a female —"

  "Spare me your protests and give us an answer!" Hawke's command cracked like pistol fire, and the doctor recoiled almost as sharply.

  "Very well. He was bled shortly after my first visit, two days ago. The fever did not abate, so I undertook a second series and this morning began a third. Because there has been no change in the boy's condition, I must conclude that another course will be necessary."

  "Have ice poultices been applied?"

  "Ice poultices? Come, miss, I am not expected to adopt every passing fad expounded by —"

  "Answer the question, damn it!" Hawke thundered.

  "No."

  "Do it." Hawke's order bore no room for questioning.

  "I do not provide ice poultices, Your Grace," the now fiery-faced physician said loftily. "And if you are set on contravening my orders, I must withdraw from this case."

  With a graphic curse, Hawke gave a violent tug at the bellpull. Immediately, an anxious footman appeared at the door. "Dr. Sudbury is leaving. Please show him out."

  Shoulders stiff with indignation, the physician marched from the room.

  "Can you help him?" Hawke stood before her, one large hand clenched in a fist against his thigh.

  Alexandra did not answer; her face was pale, her thoughts whirling.

  "For Robbie I'll get down on my knees before you and beg," he said with barely suppressed ferocity.

  Alexandra blinked, stunned by the desperate appeal in his dark eyes. Later, she would wonder why she hadn't countered with a demand that he release her from his ungodly bargain. But at that moment her thoughts were on the welfare of the innocent, anguished boy upstairs. And on the raw pain in Hawke's gray eyes.

  "I've seen the poultices used in India," she said slowly. "They're no cure in and of themselves, mind you, but they might allay your son's pain and allow him to recover faster. It would help to keep offering him liquids and broths — ices too. And of course, no more bleeding."

  "Agreed. How do we begin?"

  "You'll need boiled water that has been allowed to cool, and ice chips rolled into oiled cloth—a tightly woven twill would be best, I think. The cook should use boiled water in preparing everything the boy drinks, for there are those who say the water itself can be a source of added contagion."

  Hawke was already moving toward the door. "If you'll go up to him, I'll see to it immediately."

  Very soon, Alexandra was assembling cool water and clean cloths to wash the boy, taking the bundled ice that a maidservant brought up from the kitchen. This she placed over Robbie's left side, which the boy was gripping painfully. "This may disturb you at first, Robbie, but we'll soon have you feeling better," she said gently, moving his hands away so she could work. "Yes, I can see you're a strong lad." Carefully, she tucked the frigid poultice against his chest. "Now, you must hold this just here. Then you'll begin to feel better."

  There were dark shadows of pain and weariness beneath the boy's eyes, but his lids fluttered open, and Alexandra was captured by the power of keen gray irises. "Mama? Is that you? Have you truly come back?" His voice became confused. "But I thought you — I saw the horses —"

  From behind Alexandra came the sharp rush of an indrawn breath.

  Suddenly, the little boy was racked by a cruel spasm of coughing, and he would have cast away the poultice if Alexandra had not held it against him. "It hurts s-so, Mama!" he rasped.

  "I know it hurts, but this will make it better," she said soothingly. "We'll have you up and about very soon. But I'll need your help." She reached beneath the boy's neck to raise his head gently, and as she did, she caught a glimpse of Hawke's tense face. "Your father has something for you to drink now."

  "Father? Are you here too?"

  "Yes, Robbie, right here." Hawke unsteadily raised a glass of lemonade to his son's lips. "Drink this."

  The boy drank a little, gagged, then turned his face away. For a moment Alexandra feared he meant to refuse the drink, but Hawke bent close and whispered something in his son's ear — something that made the boy smile weakly for an instant, then drain the last of the liquid.

  Almost as soon as he finished, another fierce spasm of coughing seized him. Alexandra struggled to cradle him against her to still his paroxysms. When finally the coughs subsided, he lay back pale and wan against the pillows.

  Soon he opened his eyes and fixed Alexandra with a delirious stare. "You won't go away while I sleep, will you, Mama? Promise me — not again!" His small hands groped for her.

  "No, I shan't," Alexandra promised, taking his restless fingers. "I'll be here. Try to rest now. When you wake, I'll have a surprise for you."

  As she spoke, the boy relaxed visibly and soon settled into a light sleep, his coughing less fitful now.

  "Brave boy," Alexandra whispered as she laid him back against the pillow. She had been so determined to dislike him as much as she disliked his father, but she found it impossible.

  Very gently, Hawke ran his palm over the curve of his son's flushed cheek. "Very brave," he said in a ragged voice. "I'd give anything to bear the pain for him. When I think what he's suffered here without me — I should never have left him alone in my reckless obsession with Isobel." His voice broke for a moment, and he struggled to master his emotions. "He takes you for her, of course — a mistake we've both made recently. Thank you for letting him believe she's — returned." Wearily, Hawke drew a hand across his brow, as if to push away an unpleasant thought. "Although when he finds out—" His voice checked abruptly.

  "It was little enough to do — since the boy is innocent in all this. Go and rest," Alexandra ordered coldly. "I'll sit with Robbie until you wake." At his frown, she added "It's the only way. You know that as well as I. That nurse Sudbury hired was insufferable."

  So began a period of raw torment. Hawke and Alexandra took turns at sickroom duty until the old, reliable family doctor could be summoned from Hawkeswish. Helplessly, they watched the little boy wrestle with his pain, unable to offer him more than a cool touch and comforting words.

  Everything depended on Robbie now, on the strength of his young body and his will to survive.

  * * * * *

  For five days the two took turns at the boy's bedside, bathing him with cool water, soothing him when he awoke in the grip of the demons of delirium. Those fears Alexandra knew well, and her hands were especially gentle when she tried to drive away the black phantoms from the boy's tortured mind.

  She had seen the symptoms before, of course. What she did not tell Robbie's brooding father was that as often as not, the debilitated victim collapsed from the strain upon his body before the fever finally abated.

  Alexandra found she could not be so cruel, not to a man on the brink of collapse and still recovering from a painful wound himself. She would still have her revenge, she told herself, but there would be no honor in taking it that way.

  For Hawke the sickroom vigil brought back all the bitter memories of a war he had tried hard to forget. Once again he was haunted by specters of that disastrous winter of '08, when the English army had beat a nightmare retreat through the January cold from Corunna to the sea, their sick and dying carried through the mountains on planks and ox
carts.

  He could still hear the moans of the wounded. Try as he might, he had never forgotten the rank smell of fear and death. There in the dim sickroom he was once again assailed by memories that had never healed, but had only been pushed deep in a vain attempt to hide them forever.

  And now, witnessing Robbie's tortured struggle, Hawke saw those other faces — wounded country boys from Sussex and Yorkshire, only boys still, far from home and too young to die in the snows of a sullen Spanish winter.

  Staggering under the unbearable memories, Hawke realized the only way to survive was to retreat deep within himself and cut off all feeling and pain, to focus his entire being on his son. So it was that in the days that followed, the duke became a stern shadow. Glimpsed only at the changing intervals of care, his dark face was set in hard lines that repelled any attempt at conversation.

  On the fifth evening after their arrival Robbie's fever suddenly climbed higher. With trembling fingers, the alarmed Alexandra bathed his face and chest, talking all the while — babbling, perhaps — giving courage to herself as much as to him.

  "There, that's better. Now, here's some water and a fine lemon ice your father fetched from Gunthers. What a lucky boy you are! You mustn't let such a splendid treat go to waste!" She set the cool confection against Robbie's dry lips, drizzling some of the sweet slush into his mouth. After anxious minutes the boy took a weak swallow, then twisted his head away.

  With growing concern at his lassitude, Alexandra set down the ice. The crisis was nearing; she could feel it. "Come, Robbie, you're not fighting! I know you've more pluck than this!"

  She lifted his feverish form from the bed and settled him on her lap, trying to rouse him with gentle pressure, but he did not respond. "Come, Robbie! Havers means to give you a splendid fishing pole and net. He told me they're awaiting you even now at Hawkeswish. Just think how proud your papa will be when you pull out a fine sparkling trout."

  For an instant she thought she saw the boy's eyelids flutter.

  "Your father has also given his solemn word that you're to have your own pony this year," she continued desperately, "along with a fine red pony-cart to carry you all across the downs. Mrs. Barrows will prepare us a basket of food, and we'll go exploring, just you and I. Wouldn't you like that?"

  Was it her imagination, or did his hand move?

  "Listen to me, Robbie. I've come back for good. I'll never leave you again." May God forgive her for the lie, Alexandra prayed. "We shall have lovely times again like we used to. We'll go to Astley's circus and visit the animal specimens at the British Museum. We'll — we'll—" She swallowed a lump in her throat. "Come, Robbie, you tell me what we're to do! You must list all your favorite places, and we'll visit them one by one. Do you hear me, Robbie?"

  Alexandra was crying silently now, desperate to kindle a spark of life in that small tired body. "Dash it, Robbie, talk to me! Tell me all the outlandish places where you mean to drag your father and myself. Tell me, young man! If you don't speak this instant, I shan't keep my promise!"

  There was a gentle pressure against her chest, and the pale face shifted. His cheeks were waxy, and his tongue was dry and parched, but the words he whispered were quite clear. "Even to a balloon ascension, Mama? Jeffers told me they're ever so exciting. Might I go up in one?"

  With unsteady fingers Alexandra smoothed the disheveled black curls away from his tired face. "Yes, my sweet child, of course you may go to a balloon ascension. If your father approves, we'll all go up in the outlandish thing. I'm sure he'd fly to the moon if it would make you feel better."

  "No need to fly that far," the boy answered in a grave little voice, staring at her strangely.

  There was moisture on Alexandra's hand when she released the boy, and his forehead was hung with beads of sweat. "Thank God," she whispered. "The fever has broken at last."

  Robbie coughed hollowly, and she began to rock him in her arms. "Hush, Robbie. Everything will be fine now."

  Quietly, as the pale light of dawn stole through the windows, Alexandra began to sing an old Yorkshire lullaby that she had heard long ago from her mother.

  Doves are in their cotes.

  Cows are in their byre.

  Puppies now are sleeping,

  Dying doon is the fire.

  At the end of daytime,

  Sleep is only reet.

  So cuddle doon, my little luve,

  And say goodnight.

  Hullets hoot in the fir trees,

  Foxes still awake.

  Badgers under the owd oak

  With each other like.

  Like a golden bonfire,

  The moon is toppin' the rise.

  Like stars are laughin'

  Granny Dear, fra the skies.

  As she finished, the boy stirred slightly. "Yes," he whispered, "I think I'll sleep now, for I'm very tired. And thank you — whoever you are — for I know you're not my real mama." His voice trailed off drowsily. "You're ever so much nicer than she was, I think."

  From the shadowed doorway a tall figure watched, unmoving and unseen by the woman and the tired boy. Her sweet song and the sight of his son in her arms shook the wall of bedrock that Hawke had so fiercely erected around his heart over the long and bitter years of his life. His defenses crumbling, the Duke of Hawkesworth watched Alexandra and his sleeping son, feeling helpless and vulnerable, knowing he was poised on the very brink of a new life. And that realization frightened him very much.

  He soundlessly stepped back from the doorway, careful to conceal himself. Buffetted by raw emotions, he returned the way he had come, ashamed to let the two people inside witness the tears seeping onto his cheeks.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As soon as the crisis had passed, Robbie began to mend quickly. Overnight, his temperature returned to normal, and as it did, his energy returned. It then became a challenge to keep him distracted over the days of inactivity during his recovery.

  Hawke threw himself into this task with a wry good humor, amusing the boy with a vast set of tin soldiers brought down from the attic. Through the long afternoons their two dark heads were bent over the painted pieces, as father and son orchestrated vast battles that swept across the bedcovers and spilled down onto the floor. Soon the whole house was warmed by noisy laughter from the sickroom. For his part Hawke was delighted to see the boy lose some of his diffidence, although a hint of sadness still crept about Robbie's eyes when he thought his father was not looking.

  With the crisis over the old nurse had resumed her care of Robbie. Soon after, the family doctor had arrived from Alfriston and was pleased to pronounce the boy well on his way to recovery.

  Finally, just as a measure of calm was restored to the house, a new chaos ensued: word of Hawke's return to town had spread among the ton. Of course, such an event could not be long kept secret, even though Hawke continued to regard his duties seriously and did not leave the house.

  Hadley, the duke's very superior London butler, spent a good deal of his energies receiving the cards of inquisitive acquaintances. Every day, by early afternoon, the lacquer table in the hall would be buried beneath dozens of engraved cards conveying regards and extending invitations to all manner of balls and fetes.

  Rain rattled sharply at the window of Hawke's study one evening a week after his return to town. As he idly sifted through the pile of correspondence on his desk, his eyes fell upon a thick wax-sealed envelope half concealed by the cheerful clutter of invitations. His eyes narrowed when he recognized the precise calligraphy of his solicitor.

  Hawke cursed under his breath. Impatiently, he attacked the heavy vellum envelope and spread out five sheets closely written in the elegant hand of his man of business.

  Your Grace,

  It has been some weeks since I am in receipt of Your Graces last missive, but owing to my investigations' yielding no fruit, I have delayed writing until now. Only a fortnight ago, in fact, did certain information unexpectedly become known to me, which I convey now with alacr
ity. Your Grace will understand my reluctance to reveal the sources — they would be lost to me forever were I to divulge them.

  Your Grace's letter expressed a particular concern about the present situation of the Governor-General of Madras and his immediate family. I shall not begin to describe the difficulties of this investigation; suffice it to say that there were unusual circumstances. Matters in Madras are still somewhat unsettled, and this has added to the difficulty of the thing. Furthermore, I have been mindful of your injunction to conduct my inquiries in absolute secrecy, and this has hindered my progress to no small degree.

  The governor-general, Lord Percival Maitland, fourth Viscount Maitland, long resident in India, had been nine years in his post when the unrest broke out at Vellore. Lord Maitland had on numerous occasions warned that there must be sepoy dissension if the Crown pursued its policies of provisioning and protocol without consideration of Indian customs and religious beliefs. Even Lord Maitland, however, did not anticipate the ferocity of the rebellion, when it came, and he considered the loss of lives a direct result of his own error in judgment and leadership. Despite the vehement support of his friends and defenders — and there were many, among both Indians and British — Lord Maitland was left a broken man. The day he received word that his third petition for restitution to the East India Company Board of Control had been denied, he put a pistol to his head and took his life.

  His body was discovered by his daughter, the Honorable Alexandra Maitland, who is his sole surviving heir. Her emotions on the occasion may well be imagined. In other circumstances the young lady's lot might have been improved by her receipt of her father's considerable fortune, as Lord Maitland was the possessor of some 20,000pounds, even without the funds still owed him by the Crown. But Miss Maitland soon found herself in a position of considerable difficulty due to the disappearance of her father's man of business in the unhappy days following the governor-general's suicide.

  Hawke's fingers tightened on the heavy vellum, and a vein began to throb at his forehead.